


in the fight

by bookhousegirl



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-30 13:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhousegirl/pseuds/bookhousegirl
Summary: Every night that he laced up his skates, for twenty years, he had been expected to give of his body. To enforce on behalf of his teammates. No one would ever accuse Shawn of lacking a certain type of courage. So he puts on a brave face. The one he would show the camera while the announcers talked about his toughness, even though he had just been bashed in the skull by a guy who would go after him again as soon as those two minutes ended. Even though he started to feel like his heart ached as much as his body when the game was done.He would flex his hand, make a fist, keep going.“I think I fucked things up.” He tries again. “I think maybe I chose wrong.”Or, Shawn works on commitment. Sometimes he's better at it than others.





	in the fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowshus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowshus/gifts).



> Dear shu, thank you for your awesome letter. I hope you will find that we are a good match. All of your pairings and prompts were great, but this one has my whole heart. Thank you for requesting them and letting me have the opportunity to write them here for you.
> 
> Thank you to my fantastic friend and beta Bee for your thoughts and encouragement. And so much love to mumble and glatisant for the critiques and advice and cheerleading. Thank you to our mods for running this exchange again, and many many hearts to my fellow Bruins writers!
> 
> Title from Pink Rabbits by The National.

 

There’s nothing in the refrigerator, but Shawn opens it and pokes his head in to check. He digs in one of the cabinets next to the sink, where the recessed lighting glows dimly and makes it hard to see, and pulls out his box of decaf Dunkin k-cups and a few packets of splenda. While the machine heats up, he crushes the granules with his fingers until the yellow wrapper is soft and worn, like a forgotten dollar bill tucked away in his wallet. From the stove, the tea kettle whistles and he turns down the gas to make some of the Quaker oats he found on top of the fridge. He’s starving, and he doesn’t think oatmeal goes bad.

 

His phone buzzes. Tuukka has texted again. _Are you ready yet?_ He is now, so he grabs the coffee mug and his oatmeal, iPad tucked under his arm, and moves to the living room. At the last minute he takes a blanket from the lounger and trails it behind him like he’s some kid about to stay up late.

 

He wishes he were better at FaceTime when Tuukka appears, pixelated and frozen at first, his eyes tracking something to the side and his voice coming in bursts. Shawn stops himself from ending the call and starting all over again. He got shit about that for weeks when they first did this, now several summers ago. It was hard to be patient, to let the technology catch up and the video even out when he was waiting across the miles to see Tuukka.

 

“What?” asks Shawn, probably too loud. He balances the iPad on one knee and pulls his blanket a little tighter, the way Bergy would with his towel in front of reporters in the dressing room. The couch, in gray microsuede that Tuukka picked out, is unexpectedly smooth under his nylon track pants and he jostles the tablet accidentally.

 

“Hi,” says Tuukka, not too loud or too soft, and he smiles at the screen. “I said hi.”

 

“Oh. Hi.”

 

Tuukka squints. “Is it cold where you are?”

 

“No. I, you know, had my shirt off and it felt rude to answer your call just all bare-chested and everything.” Shawn waves his hand in front of the pinhole camera in a useless gesture. “Never mind. What’s up?”

 

“You’re so weird,” says Tuukka with a shake of his head and the kind of fond smile that used to make Shawn’s insides feel fluttery. “Anyway. I was going to ask you about the condo. Can I use it this weekend?”

 

Shawn blinks. “You want to come up?”

 

“Well, I just got an evite or something, to Rick’s fortieth birthday. I guess it went in my spam? I’m not going to Finland for another month and I want to get away from here. Even for a few days would be nice.”

 

“I’m here. At the condo,” he tells Tuukka. “I just got here, I was going to go to the party too.” He pauses and closes his eyes and forces himself to say the words. “You should still come, Tuuks.”

 

Tuukka sits back and shifts his phone, and Shawn can see he’s in the living room in Charlestown, stretched out on the couch that’s just like the one here. He’s wearing a faded Cape Cod baseball league t-shirt and his hair is starting to grow back in, floofy and curling at the front.  “If that’s cool, then yeah, okay.”

 

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

 

“Okay, then.”

 

“Okay.” Shawn nods and starts to laugh, he can’t help it.

 

“Stop saying okay,” demands Tuukka, but he looks like he’s going to laugh too and Shawn’s just about to say it again completely inadvertently when Tuukka cuts through. “Hey, Shawn, gotta go. See you soon? Don’t say okay.”

 

“See you soon,” Shawn says back, knowing to take an exit when it’s offered, and then the room is dark and quiet again and he’s filled with a sense of missing.

 

He switches off the lights in the kitchen and living area and moves down the hall to the bathroom and bedrooms. He stands in the doorway to the smaller bedroom and flips the lights on and off, as if that’s going to help him get used to things.

 

After washing his face and gargling with some listerine, he tries to relax under the covers and opens his book. Before he silenced his phone there was a single text from Tuukka that just said _Thanks_. Shawn responded after what felt like too long to be normal, with the thumbs up, because he didn’t trust himself to write out something.

 

Eventually he turns off the bedside lamp, a small glowing orb that seems more atmospheric and less practical, but Tuukka liked it and had it delivered, along with this bed and the dishes, unused in the cupboards for months at a time, and the clean white tray that holds Shawn’s shaving stuff in the bathroom. Tuukka picked out everything here. Maybe even Shawn himself.

 

Going to sleep is uneasy. His stomach hurts. The last time he was in this bed, it was the 2016 All-Star break and it was so cold in Toronto that weekend. Tuukka’s exceptional face had looked back at him. He had reached over and traced Tuukka’s nose and the warmth of his mouth and those sublime cheekbones he had worshipped for a long time.

 

“You’re a wonder,” he had said.

 

Less than a month later, Florida asked him to stay for another year and he took it.

 

* * *

 

Being the new guy is fine. Shawn has always been a head first kind of person, an early adopter, an over-committer. Having played more games in the AHL than the show and having won a Cup already make him a strange amalgamation of an elite grinder when he gets to the Bruins. But this is a team on the brink, with its efficient and professional captain Chara, and its enigmatic star-in-waiting Bergeron, and loads of talented guys: Savard and Sturm and Kessel and Tim Thomas. The Bruins are poised to win, he can feel it, and he wants so much to be right there with them when they do.

 

It’s almost impossible not to stare too long at the rookie goaltender, traded for a bag of nickels. In idle hours at camp and practice, Tuukka’s weird alien face is there. He reminds Shawn of some fantastic creature of the deep, in a myth or fairy tale, smacking down enemies at the entrance of his ocean cave, effortlessly gliding side to side. Timmy’s brand of goaltending is more familiar to him: voracious and athletic, jumping all over loose pucks and sprawling out to make a save. Shawn’s made his way similarly, with his body and his fists, and has no penchant for elegance in his game beyond the idea that hockey is brutal and therefore requires brutality.

 

“Someone should take you out to sea,” he mentions, on a break during captain’s practice.

 

“Really?” Tuukka smiles and he’s so young. “Would I get lost, at sea?”

 

“No. You couldn’t get lost there. You belong there.” He feels his face heat up after he says it. But gracefulness like that, fluidity like that, belong in another world.

 

On his left Chara and Ference are talking about something serious while a couple of the new guys are showing off their shootout moves to Manny. “Tuuks, come on!” Manny calls out and waves his glove in their direction. “Not you, old man!” he yells, pointing at Shawn.

 

Tuukka grins and picks his mask up from the edge of the boards. “I better go save Manny,” he says. And like it wasn’t the oddest, most inappropriate conversation in the world, he taps Shawn’s leg with his stick and adds, “That was cool. Thanks, Shawn.”

 

Then, at the beginning of everything, he doesn’t even play in the few games Tuukka starts before being sent to Providence for the season. Sometimes he’s a healthy scratch and sometimes he plays only a couple of minutes, only a few key fourth line shifts, but it’s what he’s meant for. If he can keep guys honest on the ice and chip in a good hit or two, maybe a shot that results in a faceoff, he’s doing his job and doing it right.

 

He doesn’t play for Tuukka’s first win. It is a whole season later when he’s finally on the ice for it, a tight one goal shutout over the Rangers in late January, and he can’t contain himself in the line to congratulate his goalie.

 

“You’re a wonder,” he shouts, but it’s barely loud enough above the cheering fans and the opening bars of Dirty Water.

 

Later, when he’s about to head down to the garage, Tuukka, looking slick and seamless in his game day suit, is waiting for him in the hallway. Some young guys look awkward and out of place in their suits that don’t quite match their maturity level yet. Not Tuukka. The same way he looks made for the water, he looks made for this.

 

Shawn stops and nods. “Great game today.”

 

“That’s what everybody says.”

 

“Well it’s true.”

 

“That’s what everybody _else_ says.” Tuukka presses his lips together and looks down. “You say stuff that other people don’t. ‘You’re a wonder?’ Who says stuff like that, Shawn?”

 

“Sorry.” Shawn shuffles his feet but he doesn’t have much more to say. And he’s not that sorry. “I won’t. Anymore.”

 

“No,” Tuukka corrects him, and as he steps close Shawn can smell his body wash covering up the sweat of the game. He smells good and he feels good too when he presses his forehead against Shawn’s shoulder and says quietly, “I _like_ it. I know I’m going back to the PBruins. Manny and Timmy have it locked up for you guys, and I get it. But it’s cool to have someone like you say stuff like that. Makes me feel like I’m something special. Like a star already.”

 

“You are something special. You’re gonna be a starter here. And you’re gonna own this fucking league. I promise you that,” Shawn whispers, his fingers stroking the soft little curls at the back of Tuukka’s neck. “I’ve been around a long time. I know this kind of thing.”

 

At home alone he allows himself to fantasize about the strange green eyes, that face, and what Tuukka might look like if Shawn could get between those thighs, what Tuukka might taste like if Shawn could get his mouth on any part of him. It felt like it might happen, there in hallway, next to the elevator to the garage, when Tuukka leaned into him, revealed a piece of himself.

 

It’s the beginning of the first thing they are.

 

* * *

 

When Tuukka arrives, he uses his key and Shawn hears him setting down things on the island in the kitchen. He pauses at the second smaller bedroom before greeting Shawn.

 

“Are you sick?” Tuukka asks, his brow furrowed, while hovering in the doorway.

 

“No. Just felt like lying around in bed til you got here.”

 

Tuukka shakes his head and flops obnoxiously on the side of the bed that used to be his. “Well I’m hungry. So get up so we can get dinner.”

 

Shawn makes a show of being annoyed, but it’s nice to see Tuukka here. He cracks a crease in the spine of his book and sets it down on the table. There is a plaid shirt on one of the chairs nearby and he buttons it over his t-shirt while Tuukka waits on the bed and answers texts.

 

“Marchy says hi,” Tuukka announces, looking up just as Shawn finds the sandals he tossed on the floor yesterday.

 

“Oh does he now.”

 

“Yeah he does. Hurry up.”

 

“Tell Marchy to quit texting you,” he snaps and wants to take it back immediately.

 

“He’s done.” Tuukka pockets his phone and pushes playfully in the direction of the door. “Let’s go.”

 

There is an unassuming bar nearby with a quiet booth in the back that they like. “Hey, can you bring an orange for him? Thank you,” Tuukka says to the server, pointing to Shawn's Blue Moon.

 

“You didn’t have to.”

 

“You know they always forget.”

 

“Thanks.” Shawn tries to relax. The burger here is good, they both get it, and Tuukka raves about how crispy the bread is. No matter what they were to each other, what definitions they used or didn’t use, they’re friends and will always be friends. That’s the clearest thing they are now, the bright line that exists, even when lots of other lines are muddled. Shawn is at the end and he should be thankful, that Tuukka is here in any form at all, when there were times he was sure he’d be left to face the future all alone.

 

“Boston good?” He uses the thing they both know and understand.

 

Tuukka grimaces and chases down the bite of burger with his beer. “Okay, considering. We were happy to get back. It was gonna be tough for us no matter what.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Shawn says. “I was thrilled for you guys. You deserved it after the last two.”

 

“Yeah. We were pretty proud of it. And there’s a lot to look forward to. Hopefully we’re only going to get better.”

 

“Yeah. I’m sure of it.”

 

“Your family came for your last game, right? And you drank the scotch that the Florida guys gave you?” Tuukka asks. He’s trying for an interested, casual tone and pretty much succeeds. But Shawn remembers how they talked, after 2013, after 2014, even after the first two seasons in Florida, about being able to share that moment together somehow. And Shawn knows that he played the game and soaked in the cheers and hugged his parents and told the stories everyone wanted to hear. But when it came down to it, he drank the scotch alone and went to bed wishing that he could kiss Tuukka.

 

Shawn smiles and meets Tuukka’s eyes. He’s sad, even though all of that was pretty happy. “Everyone was really great and treated me like I had done something way beyond what I actually did. But it was nice to get to feel like that.”

 

Maybe he’s just imagining that Tuukka looks a little sad too when he touches Shawn’s hand, just a brief knock of knuckles, and says, “Well, you deserved it. Even if you don’t think you did.”

 

Back at the condo, they step around each other in the bathroom. The routine is familiar, but rusty, like they’re out of practice. Close, but missing. The toothpaste in the cabinet is still Tuukka’s organic stuff that Shawn thinks tastes like chalk. Tuukka opens the mirror up and pulls it out, along with a yellow toothbrush that Shawn didn’t even know was there.

 

Shawn waits in the hallway until he can use the sink. As he scoots by, Tuukka puts his hand on Shawn’s hip. He squeezes lightly and his fingers brush along the skin. “I’ll be in the spare room, if you need anything,” he says, making it easy. “Sleep well.”

 

Shawn thinks of how Tuukka’s voice would sound, when they would talk before bed, how he could fall asleep to the rocking of the boat or the gentle hum of traffic from the roof deck or Tuukka’s steady breathing. There is a wall between them now, but he quiets down, and tries to settle in, to listen for it anyway.

 

* * *

 

The Cup win brings attention to all of them. In a town partly overshadowed by the staggering success of the three other sports franchises, when they finally win, the floodgates open.

 

The parties are endless. They pile into cabs together and laugh hysterically as Segs has to jump out and pee every five seconds. Tuukka sits warm at Shawn’s side, fingers curved around his bicep, bumping against his knee every time they take a turn too fast. Kells argues with Marchy about the weather and everywhere they go people want to buy them drinks and steaks. Girls want to grind and dance and make out and make them feel important.

 

As a guy who spent more time riding the vinyl seats of the bus, eating pizza and drinking whatever cheap shit they could get their hands on, through all those games in St. John’s and Norfolk, Shawn has never been one to put much stock in fame and fortune. Segs is lightning in a bottle, he’s going to be a franchise player, and he should soak in as much of the limelight as he can. He’s made for dancing on bars and flashing his abs with the beautiful people as much as Shawn’s made for fewer professional athlete cliches. There’s no debate, he can party twice as hard as Marchy and Segs, fuck them if they think otherwise. But more often than not he would rather stay home, shoot the shit, and drink while the Sox are on in the afternoon.

 

And he is accustomed to having the most interesting person in the room right by his side. So why bother with anyone else. He gets offers, sure, from lots of nice, friendly, pretty people. He looks and he considers. But he never takes them.

 

On a day like most others after the Cup, there is baseball on tv, with the weather just slightly claustrophobic and overbearing in the way that almost everything in Boston can be. They alternate between the sun on the deck and the welcome blast of AC, Shawn mixing drinks and luxuriating in finally getting time to be with Tuukka instead of chaperoning Marchy’s drunk ass to every post-Cup party or shitty dive bar in the city. He asked if Tuukka wanted to call Marchy or Soupy to join them and three hours later, no one else had stopped by.

 

Tuukka has been looking at him all day. And he’s frequently secretive and hard to read, Shawn knows. There have been tons of times, hundreds of moments since that day in the hallway two and a half years ago, when Shawn thought, but wasn’t sure.

 

Now, _today,_ on his sofa, with legs spread apart, and wearing shorts so clingy that Shawn can see a distinct outline of dick, Tuukka is looking at him with a lazy smile and there’s nothing hard to read at all. He’s sexy and motherfucking gorgeous and it’s an _offer_.

 

“Yeah?” Shawn asks, close enough to smell the mojitos that they drank on the rooftop. He runs his fingers along the waistband of those stupidly short shorts and dips lower, thumbing at the silky head of Tuukka’s cock. “This what you want?”

 

Tuukka leans in and kisses him. It’s soft and slow and _so much_ when Tuukka breathes into his mouth, “I just want you.”

 

“Jesus, Tuuks, you’re gonna kill me,” he swears, dragging Tuukka’s shorts down so he can suck at the smooth skin on the inside of Tuukka’s thighs. The sounds coming from Tuukka, small grunts and needy moans, are better than Shawn’s fantasies.

 

“Fuck,” Tuukka sighs, when Shawn finally takes him in his mouth. “It might be the other way around.”

 

Afterwards they go together, hand in hand like teenagers or an old married couple, to the roof again to look at the lights and the skyline. Tuukka falls asleep with his sunglasses still on. Shawn drinks a mojito and then another and he looks over at Tuukka and somehow the only word he thinks of is _forever_.

 

* * *

 

 

They sat on a wall in the sun, and tried to move on, from a should’ve-been Game 7, from two goals in seventeen fucking seconds, from watching another team celebrate on Garden ice.

 

“It’s like my dreams got crisscrossed with someone else’s,” says Marchy. “This is fun and everything. But we’re supposed to be somewhere else. And someone else is supposed to be here.”

 

“Dave Bolland,” mutters Soupy darkly and Segs tips his solo cup.

 

“Fucking _all of them,_ not just Dave Bolland!” Marchy exclaims.

 

“But we kind of stole it from Toronto. Maybe we were already going on borrowed time,” muses Tuukka and Marchy looks horrified.

 

“Fuck you Tuuks, we fucking _won it_.” Marchy takes a swig from his flask and shakes his head. “I can’t even believe you said that. You should go sit over there, away from us.”

 

Tuukka, imploring, looks at Shawn for help and Shawn laughs. “Nope nope, you got yourself into that.”

 

Marchy and Segs are distracted by someone pulling out a hacky sack and Tuukka smiles with a weird look on his face, a little lost. “I don’t think my dreams got crisscrossed,” he admits. “I think they just ended. I’ve thought about it a lot. And I’m not sure how you ever come back from what happened.” He clears his throat. “From what happened to me.”

 

“It’s not on you,”Shawn says softly. “And there are going to be dreams again. I promise you.”

 

Tuukka leans his arm casually across Shawn’s thigh and rubs his thumb over a long scar just below the knee, from ball hockey or practice or just screwing around, in high school, or juniors, Shawn can’t even remember any more. Whatever happened is buried, deep but painless now, underneath a neat line of puckered skin. It’s a miraculous trick of the human body to try to protect itself on the inside while still bearing the truth of it to the world. This pain of Tuukka’s, he wants to sink it to the bottom of the ocean, or jettison it to the stars.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” Tuukka suggests and Shawn’s on his feet then. Soupy and Piesy can deal with the kids.

 

They fuck quietly back at Shawn’s on the roof deck, under a blanket and their Charlestown sky, Tuukka on top and pressed close, his tongue in Shawn’s mouth, his arms tight around Shawn’s shoulders.

 

Three days later, Shawn buys a boat. The idea has always been tempting to him, but now it feels more like a necessity. Tuukka won’t have a visible scar, because hearts don’t literally break. But maybe that’s the point. What’s there will hurt for way longer.

 

Tuukka just stares at him. “Shawn. Who does this?”

 

“For brand new dreams,” he says.

 

* * *

 

In the morning Tuukka pops his head into the bedroom. “What time did you want to hit the road?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know. Around noon I guess?” Shawn scrubs a hand over his face and blinks. His back and neck hurt like he slept in a weird position. He needs a coffee and about a gallon of water.

 

“Just gonna jump in the shower. I’ll be quick,” says Tuukka, backing out of the room into the hallway.

 

Out in the kitchen there’s a large cup from Starbucks with his name on it. He pours a glass of water and sits down at the island with his iPad. The Sox lost again, he reads, and he shuts the thing off. Outside the big windows that look south to the lake, the gray clouds are rolling off. In Boston, he loves his townhouse, but to get any sense of the larger world, to bask in the warmth of the sun or see the glint of stars, he’d have to go to the roof to feel a part of it. Here, he likes this view. He knows the world he belongs to, just by looking out.

 

Tuukka appears, and if he’s trying to test Shawn’s self-control, he’s doing a damn good job. He’s only got a towel on, wrapped not all that tightly around his hips, and he still looks wet for some reason, like he stepped out of a Finnish sauna with the Stanley Cup. “I got you a bagel too, in the bag.” He points next to Shawn. “You’ve got nothing to eat here except oatmeal.”

 

Shawn looks in the bag. It’s one of the parmesan ones with cracked pepper that he likes. He takes it out and slices it for the toaster. “Well, I haven’t been up here in awhile,” he admits. That last time, full of kissing in the shower and eating takeout and huddling on the couch to watch Bergy play at the All-Star Game, seemed fitting.

 

“Oh yeah?” Tuukka takes a sip of his coffee and watches Shawn. “How long?”

 

“A long time. Long enough.”

 

Tuukka unlatches the lock to the balcony door and steps out before Shawn can protest that nobody should go out there half-naked. “Look.” He holds up a mug and it’s filled with silver beer can tabs. “This must be from when Marchy came. It’s been out there the whole time.”

 

Shawn snorts. “That was a disaster.”

 

“It wasn’t. And Marchy really liked it. He told me like a dozen times how much he appreciated that trip.” Tuukka stands at the sink and carefully rinses out the mug. He scoops the handful of tabs, puts them in the trashcan, and places the mug in the dishwasher. “I just thought when you got this place that you’d be coming here all the time.”

 

The toaster dings and pops the bagel halves. Shawn reaches for them too soon and his finger stings from the heat. In the bag there are two small pats of butter wrapped in foil and he shakes them onto the counter. “I thought so too,” he reveals, hating that his chest feels bruised. Because yeah, that was the hope at the time. “But it’s a long way from Florida. And my plans kind of changed.”

 

Tuukka smiles a little wistfully and leans against the counter. He crosses his skinny arms over his chest. “You could always make new plans.”

 

Shawn drags his eyes away from the lean, pale palette of skin that he used to kiss until it was red and marked. He clutches his coffee cup and concentrates on chewing his bite of bagel. “I’m just...trying to do my best.” His voice comes out rough and forced. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

 

“I know,” Tuukka says with a sympathetic press of hand to his shoulder. “I like the idea of you and this condo, that’s all. I don’t like it empty. I want it to contain you.”

 

Before he can answer back, Tuukka slides away, to go get ready. _It’s supposed to contain you too,_ is his singular thought. But today, through some miracle, it does.

 

* * *

 

Hell yes, he is going to marry whoever puts a highball of bourbon in front of him. The first pre-season party is in full swing at Johnny’s and the vibe is getting close for Shawn, to toppling over the edge from appropriately upbeat and hopeful to the wrong way to work shit out. Honestly, he thought everybody dealt with it months ago, back when they partied like they had won again, rather than lost it at the last second.

 

But that was before the trade with a capital T.

 

And now tonight feels like he’s seeing the shoddy paint job stripped away; the ugly cracks are still there. Marchy is drinking tequila straight from the bottle and acts like he’s taking an arrow to the chest every time Reilly Smith tries to join in beer pong. Z and Seids peaced out a long time ago, too sensible for all this angsty crap. Tuukka is getting handsy, the way he does when he’s pliable and drunk. Tearing his eyes away at all has been impossible, just as it was back in the beginning. He’s got his own reality bearing down on him after the Bruins play 82 games this year. Hopefully they get a longass post season. And then there’s the potential of hitting the market. The push and pull of should I stay or should I go.

 

“You looked like you could use this,” says a voice, and shit, it’s fucking Kells of all people.

 

“Shit,” Shawn says out loud and Kells smirks.

 

“Yep, it’s that obvious, bud. Drink up.”

 

Shawn shakes his head. “I think I’m going to leave.”

 

Kells raises an eyebrow. He’s high on the intuitive scale. Most of the time Marchy’s meddling is all bullshit, he’s fumbling in the dark for anything to needle at, and you’re going to hit something once in awhile when you try for everything. But Kells watches and then lies in wait. It’s a good trait for an alternate captain maybe, but tonight Shawn doesn’t want a talk, he wants to escape.

 

“Thorty. You should get your boy under control before you do.”

 

In a tucked away corner of the room Tuukka and Marchy are now doublefisting belgian beers and dancing. The long line of Tuukka’s body is pressed up against Marchy’s back and they’re laughing, their mouths very close together. It can be intoxicating, Shawn knows.

 

“You should get _your_ boy under control.” He feels snarky and mean and partially hates that he does. It’s just a party and it’s just Marchy who is as harmless as a garden snake. But it doesn’t sit well, that he tried to right all of this months ago and gave it his best shot and thought that he had. A few cruises around the harbor in a shiny boat, a few perfect moments below deck, seem like miscalculated distractions.

 

“I would,” Kells sighs. “But when he’s like this, he just needs to work it out. And you know, there’s no harm in what’s going on here. He’s sad about Segs. Sad about Fer. We all feel that way when there’re changes.”

 

Shawn stands to go. “I know. I get it. Hey, just make sure someone gets Tuuks home safe, okay?”

 

Kells nods and drains the glass of bourbon himself. “Yeah. But it should be you. You should take him home.”

 

“No. I’m not getting into that. I’m not anybody’s handler.”

 

“I know you’re not,” Kells says neutrally, spreading out his hands, as if he’s going to say more and then thinks better of it. “Look. You get home safe yourself. I’ll take care of all this.”

 

Eventually Shawn feels the bed dip beside him as Tuukka crawls in, sweaty and still clothed and still drunk. “I’m back,” Tuukka murmurs, burying his face into Shawn’s shoulder. “Home now.”

 

Three days later he skips the final captain’s practice to put an offer on a condo in downtown Toronto. Why exactly he wants it, or what it’s going to be, he’s not sure yet except for the fact that it’s not Boston. Out the wide windows, there is still a view of the water. Inside, it’s not quaint and colonial, it’s modern and citified. It’s for something entirely new.

  


In December they’re in Toronto for only a day, and Tuukka can see the condo for the first time.

 

“What do you think?”

 

It’s small, not the multiple rooms of his multilevel brownstone. Tuukka has checked everything out, poked his head into the closets and opened the doors on the laundry appliances. He steps out onto the tiny patio, where he can see the green space of the park below, the gray of Lake Ontario beyond. “It’s cool. I mean, there’s no furniture. You know that, right?” He elbows Shawn, pleased with his joke.

 

“Yes, I know that.” Shawn rolls his eyes. “We’ll get furniture. Otherwise. Do you like it?” He’s sweating a little. There is a tingling sensation in his hands, adrenaline and excitement and that rush, where your body lets you know that when you’re really living life, it should feel as scary and momentous as this. He feels like he should get down on one knee.

 

“It’s great.” Tuukka smiles. “It’s just right for us,” he says. “We fit.”

 

If there’s a poet in this relationship, it’s always been Shawn, who dreamt of an odyssey at sea from the moment they met. But Tuukka is the one thing to anchor him, that connects his fantasy with a real life on solid ground. He clasps Tuukka’s hand and pulls him in tight, their bodies latched together in this empty place that contains only them.

 

* * *

 

“You look good,” he says as they start the drive to Rick’s party, an hour north, on the shore of Lake Simcoe near McRae beach.

 

“You too,” Tuukka says back, and starts cleaning his sunglasses with the wipes that are in the glove compartment. When he’s done, he holds out his hand for Shawn to pass his sunglasses over.

 

Shawn huffs out a laugh in surprise. “Thanks.” He slides them back on and tries to concentrate on the city streets and neighborhood blocks. “So, off to Finland after this, right?”

 

Tuukka has kicked off his flip flops and reclined the seat back. He slides his phone into his pocket and nods. “Yes. And then back to Boston in August. I figure you’re still gonna do the golf tournament? So maybe we could do the trip the week before?”

 

“Oh.” Shawn grips the steering wheel. The post-retirement trip was something they always talked about. Europe, or the Seychelles, or just a boat trip, they had never nailed it down. It was a reality that slipped further and further away as he put things off, chose Florida, didn’t come home. The trip, he assumed, was off the table. “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be doing next or whether it’ll be in Florida or maybe in Springfield. Who knows.”

 

Tuukka shrugs and his sunglasses are on, so Shawn can’t tell if he’s upset and trying to be cool about it, the way he is when most things upset him. “Whatever you want. It’s your retirement. I just wanted you to know that I’ve got the time to do it, if you still want to.”

 

“Okay. We’ll figure it out.”

 

“Cool.” Tuukka rests his head against the window. He doesn’t rub Shawn’s knee absently or tell stories about people they know, like he used to. But he stays off his phone too. He seems fine to sit there and ignore all the things that they’re not figuring out.

 

* * *

 

In Boston, the Bruins figure things out for him, after they exit the playoffs early, to fucking Montreal of all teams. Thanks, but no thanks, says Peter.

 

He watches Tuukka win the Vezina.

 

On July 1, Florida comes with an offer, to play for two more years, so he doesn’t even have to think about a hometown discount and how fitting it would have been, to hang them up here with the black and gold. To play with Tuukka til the end.

 

What would he have given up to stay? He can’t worry too much about it. Boston said no, and he gets it. He takes the offer.

 

They do their usual summer thing, meandering boat trips, and facetime from Finland, and the golf tournament and Jimmy Fund with the team in Boston, even though Shawn is also packing up. He’s looking at specs that his realtor keeps sending, for a rental house in Sunrise, and struggles with picking one.

 

“Are you going to take the boat?” Tuukka asks one day when they’re about to grill for dinner.

 

“No.” Shawn turns away from the steaks in surprise, to stare at Tuukka, who is thumbing through an old Sports Illustrated with Peyton Manning on the cover. “I still live here. I’m still going to be here.”

 

“Sure. Makes sense,” Tuukka agrees.

 

“You know it’s yours too, right?”

 

Tuukka nods but remains fixated on the magazine. “Yeah, of course,” he says, and it doesn’t feel like they’re talking about the boat anymore.

 

His worries creep in and he can’t name what bothers him the most. Instead, he whispers,“It’s starting, and I’m not gonna be there anymore.”

 

Tuukka kisses him in ways to melt away his fears, a million affectionate bursts that quickly turn passionate and desperate. Shawn tries to pour every sense of loss and every urge to fight from his body, there in the dark with Tuukka pinned underneath him.

 

“We don’t have to decide anything right now,” Tuukka breathes against his mouth, while his hand, slick and tight, jerks Shawn off. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

Marchy is the only one who ever stayed with them.

 

“Holy shit, this place is baller,” he proclaims.

 

“That’s Shawn, he’s a total baller,” laughs Tuukka as he wrestles Marchy’s jacket and duffel bag from his shoulder.

 

“He kind of is. A stealth baller. With his boat and swank condo and shit.” Marchy takes in the view from the dining area window and whistles. He pats his hand against Tuukka’s chest. “You got yourself a winner, Tuuks. Way to go.”

 

Shawn shoves his hands in his pockets and grumbles. “None of it is to be baller.”

 

He agreed to this visit under duress. There’s been more pressure to figure stuff out and less time to be here at the condo. Boston pulls him one way and Florida pulls another, and Marchy being here just makes his head spin. Maybe he’s a distraction or a curiosity, to see how one of their friends will be with them in their own space. Maybe there was something cracked and familiar in Marchy’s voice when he asked. It’s probably not a wise idea, with all of them feeling beaten and vulnerable, but Shawn didn’t say no.

 

Boston didn’t make the playoffs for the first time in seven seasons and a lot of his friends are about to face a fate like he did. None of it feels good. Tuukka’s still smiling somehow, but what’s going on underneath is starting to work its way through, like a splinter about to break the skin. His ease peels at the edges even when he happily bashes the tennis ball up and down the court, a little too hard sometimes. He clutches so fiercely at Shawn’s back when they fuck, as if Shawn might vanish if he lets go.

 

Marchy wants to go to a Jays game and eat hot dogs and drink beer in a suite. He wants to watch movies and sit on their balcony being maudlin. He’s not trying to be easy. “Do you think everyone wants it the same amount?” he asks, fingers pulling anxiously at the silver tab of his beer can. “We all made it this far, but sometimes I dunno. Too many passengers maybe.”

 

“I don’t know, Squirrel. You do what you can. That’s what you can control.”

 

“Right,” Marchy says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

 

At night Marchy goes reluctantly to the spare room. With his headphones on, he talks without any awareness of how loud he’s being.

 

“Squirrel! I can hear you!” Shawn yells as he pounds on the wall.

 

“I can hear you too!” Marchy shouts back and Tuukka dissolves into laughter.

 

“Hey,” Tuukka says, sliding lower in bed and reaching up to cup Shawn’s face. “Shawn. He’ll be like this until he works it out of his system. It’ll be fine.” He kisses Shawn and opens his mouth, hot and sweet and distracting. “Come on,” he says, inching down Shawn’s briefs and starting the slow grind of his hips that makes them both forget about Marchy altogether.

 

Many months later, after Shawn succumbs to the pull towards the south and signs with Florida again, and Tuukka says, “We’ll figure it out, I guess,” Shawn can see he’s being given an easy exit.

 

He takes it.

 

Like with Boston two years ago, it’s a relief. No more doubts rattling around, if he could go another year, if he could contribute, if somebody would want him. No more answering the question about just staying put.

 

Marchy, for better or worse, is the only one who has something to say. “I don’t get it,” is what he opens with.

 

“There’s nothing for you to get.”

 

“Well Tuuks made it seem like you were retiring and you were gonna come back here so -”

 

“I live in Boston. I’ll always be there. It’s not something I’m coming back to.”

 

Marchy seems resigned. “Okay that’s a very _fine_ distinction. And maybe you see it that way. But for other people, they saw it differently.”

 

“Marchy, you came to my condo and you sat with me and you asked me if people want it enough,” Shawn grits out, his fingers curled and trembling as he holds the phone, ready for a fight. He’s not addressing the real concern, which is Tuukka’s disappointment. He knows that. Yet this still feels important to say, somehow.  “I’ve been given another chance to try. From a team that wants me. Are you honestly saying that it’s wrong for me to take that?”

 

“No. But all the plans and the future with the condo and stuff. You guys just seemed so happy.”

 

“There’s more than one way to be happy,” Shawn stresses, and this time he thinks it’s pretty convincing.

 

* * *

 

Rick has been Shawn’s friend forever, and this kind of party should be easy. It’s a birthday, an actual celebration, not a gathering storm disguised as a way to blow off some steam, so he hugs tightly and chats happily and takes all the well-wishes about his retirement in stride. People want to hear what it was like to fight John Scott and whether he meant what he said about Emelin, and he can tell a story with all the right inflections, all the right beats.

 

“It was like getting hit in the head five times by a guy who is literally the size of a giraffe?” he offers.

 

“A giraffe who does WWE,” adds Tuukka, making a comical face, and everyone laughs at that, including Shawn. “Shawn’s more of a street fighter.”

 

Shawn huffs for show. “Thanks.”

 

Tuukka tips his beer and smiles. “I liked that fight, even though you had no chance.”

 

“Great,” he sighs. “Keep it up.” The others are talking about something else now, but Tuukka is still smiling. Suddenly it seems hot, and Shawn wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, checking for the phantom sweat.

 

As the party goes on, with these delicious shrimp appetizers and a big multi-layer cake and more booze than he’s had in awhile, he talks until he feels like punching the next guy who asks about retirement or his plans. From across the room, Tuukka has been taking pictures of the food.

 

Shawn catches his eye before he wanders away, out the back door, to sit on the grass by the lake. A flock of gulls swoops close to the surface of the water and he tries to concentrate on them taking off again, white dots against the orange evening sky. He tracks their movements and blinks as they become blurry in his line of vision.

 

Standing next to him, Tuukka jiggles a half bottle of Wild Turkey as an offering and he shakes his head. “Feeling alright?” Tuukka asks, putting his hand on Shawn’s shoulder as he eases to the ground.

 

“I needed a break.”

 

“I hear you.”

 

“You were taking a lot of pictures.”

 

“For Marchy. I wanted to show him the cake and all those mini burgers. He likes seeing food stuff.” Tuukka clicks the button on his phone to lock it and drops it in the grass. “I’m ready to go, whenever you are.”

 

Shawn reaches for the bottle and takes a big swig. Every night that he laced up his skates, for twenty years, he had been expected to give of his body. To enforce on behalf of his teammates. No one would ever accuse Shawn of lacking a certain type of courage. So he puts on a brave face. The one he would show the camera while the announcers talked about his toughness, even though he had just been bashed in the skull by a guy who would go after him again as soon as those two minutes ended. Even though he started to feel like his heart ached as much as his body when the game was done.

 

He would flex his hand, make a fist, keep going.

 

“I think I fucked things up.” He tries again. “I think maybe I chose wrong.”

 

Tuukka regards him with a long cool look and takes the bottle back. “I don’t think there was much of a choice, Shawn. I wish you could’ve stayed too.”

 

“But after the first contract. I could’ve done the broadcasting thing.”

 

“You’re good at that. And you look really good on tv.” Tuukka smiles and Shawn flushes. “But I think you still want to try something else. And I know you. You’ll be good at that too.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re being so easy on me, about all this. You still want me for some reason, even though I didn’t choose you or Boston when I could’ve. And not just once.”

 

“You said things to me, years ago, that no one even thought of, and it mattered to me. You told me after 2013 that I would have dreams again. And I do.”

 

“Well that doesn’t seem like very much.”

 

Tuukka groans, but it’s good natured. “Come on. I’m not going to pump your tires. You know what it meant.”

 

Shawn feels tired. “I’m not sure that I do,” he reveals.

 

“Why did you do it then?” asks Tuukka. “Why do any of it?”

 

“Because I showed up in Boston to play hockey,” he says. “And then I saw you. And I wanted to.”

 

Tuukka smiles and takes Shawn’s hand and presses their palms together. His hands are smooth and Shawn’s are simple and solid, but it feels like they fit. “Me too,” he answers, like that settles everything.

 

Shawn lets out a grateful laugh. He doesn’t let go of Tuukka’s hand. “Since when are you the one who gives the pep talk?” he tries to joke.

 

“Give me some credit. I think I’ve been doing it for years now. Maybe all the way back to the beginning.” Tuukka reaches over and kisses him, and it’s just the way Shawn remembers, slow and lush and deep, like his favorite bourbon on his tongue. Like the best things about a Boston summer day.

 

“I’m going to sleep in here,” Tuukka says later, sliding in bed next to him, making it easy.

 

* * *

 

“Let me help,” Shawn offers, hopping from their boat onto the dock when Tuukka arrives at the marina. He lifts the cooler aboard and takes Tuukka’s backpack. “What the fuck is in this thing?”

 

“You know I don’t drink shitty Canadian beers,” Tuukka laughs when Shawn gestures to the opened cooler. There are three Labatts and a bunch of cans of this fancy pilsner from Brooklyn that Tuukka’s become a fan of. “You’re lucky I even brought those.”

 

“You can drink those instead of the mojitos I’m going to make then.”

 

“I definitely want the mojitos. Well played.” Tuukka climbs aboard. He stops for a moment, to wrap Shawn in a hug before he goes to sit on the deck, sporting his Oakleys and the Thurston Howell captain’s hat. While Shawn starts the engine, Tuukka keeps looking back, like he’s checking to make sure Shawn is still there.

 

“What,” Shawn says.

 

“Admiring the view I guess,” replies Tuukka breezily and Shawn has to laugh because that’s the cheesiest thing ever.

 

He waves his arm, back towards Charlestown, and out to the harbor. “There’s your view.”

 

“Eh, it’s alright.” Tuukka shrugs and opens another beer.

 

“Seen one, seen em all?”

 

“I’ve definitely seen plenty of cities. But this one’s my favorite.”

 

“Well you’ve probably seen plenty of aging hockey players too.” Self deprecation is not high on his list of things he likes about himself. He expects a chirp back, something lame about the aging part, something safe, so it doesn’t feel so close to toppling overboard.

 

Tuukka turns again to smile at him. “I saw one once. He told me I should be taken out to sea. And I didn’t look any more after that.”

 

Shawn stills, and he can’t breathe. All he ever did was come to Boston, play a bunch of hockey games, fall in love with everything here, and leave it. That feels like it will never be enough. Not for this. But Tuukka’s turned away from him now, and anything he might say would be lost in the sound of the water and the waves.

 

They drop the anchor for lunch. Tuukka drinks a mojito and a half, and Shawn finishes it for him. The August day in the city was airless and tight, but on the water it’s cool enough for Tuukka to fall asleep. His head is heavy on Shawn’s bare thigh and his dark curls tickle Shawn’s skin in the breeze. Instead of lifting his hand from Tuukka’s head every time he has to turn the page of his book, Shawn gives up and just waits.

 

“You’re warm,” is what Tuukka says when he eventually wakes up and rolls onto his back so Shawn can stare down at him. He wriggles his body so his head is more directly in Shawn’s lap. He wants, and he’s making Shawn want, that familiar push and pull. His flimsy t-shirt has ridden up and Shawn grazes Tuukka’s bare stomach with his fingers. Tuukka’s eyelids flutter and close.

 

“There’s probably a hoodie or a blanket or something, down below,” suggests Shawn. “If you’re cold.”

 

“Nah. I’d rather stay like this.”

 

“Do you want to go back? Or further out?” He has no preference really. But this feels like the beginning of everything, so he wants to do what Tuukka wants.

 

“Up to you.” Tuukka sits up and his face is very close. “But I think I’m gonna get that sweatshirt after all,” he says, and kisses Shawn lightly, so easily, before going down below deck and reappearing at the top of the steps with a bunch of grapes in one hand. “So back home or -”

 

“Not yet, I think,” Shawn tells him.

 

“Okay,” says Tuukka, and he picks up Shawn’s book where he left it on the cushioned bench and sits back to look through it. He pulls a grape off the bunch with his teeth and turns the page.

 

He’s so close, Shawn can almost hear the breathing in and out, in time with the waves, the sound, for all those years, that ushered him to quiet sleep and eased him into every dream.

  
They’ve still got a lot of light left. There are no other plans, at least not right now, not for the rest of today. Shawn reels up the anchor, lets the current carry them out.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tuukka and Shawn began their Bruins careers together, in the 2007-08 season, when Tuukka was just a baby goalie and Shawn had already played professional hockey for twelve years or so. Shawn won two Stanley Cups and retired at the end of this season, which caused me to have many many many feelings (and thus came this fic).
> 
> They are fantastic friends, and neighbors in Boston, they own a boat together, and go to concerts, and [sometimes stand awkwardly near horses.](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/20/5b/19/205b1986de1312d0666bd6036514dae0.jpg)
> 
> Here are some things referenced in the fic if you want to check them out:
> 
> [One of the most unabashedly romantic goalie line embraces ever](https://giphy.com/gifs/boston-bruins-tuukka-rask-goalie-love-10yqELfbroylKU) (after the Bruins eliminated Detroit in Round 1 of the 2014 playoffs). I'm sure what Shawn actually said was way better than what I came up with.
> 
> The time they [sat on a wall at Harvard](http://tylerseguin-91.tumblr.com/post/54042062567/bruins-partying-yesterday-even-with-soupy) (after the 2013 loss).
> 
> And here's the [photo that the party scene was inspired by](http://the--generators.tumblr.com/post/131461707382/this-is-a-real-thing-that-exists-on-the-internet) (actually from a party in 2014, after the Bruins lost their series to Montreal).
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


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